For the next day or so, the Beast took pains to avoid meeting Belle around the castle. This was impeded slightly by her inability to fly – for the time being, at least, she was land-locked. As such, it meant that instead of being able to fly away at a moment's notice, she instead had to keep an ear and eye out at all times for Belle's presence in the castle. It was fairly easy most of the time, as the only unfamiliar voice and tread the Beast heard could belong to only one person, but it was more than a little inconvenient.

Her initial impression that Belle was challenging in all sorts of unforeseen ways hadn't changed at all. What had changed was that despite knowing how uncomfortable some of Belle's questions were, the Beast wanted her to ask them. Or perhaps she wanted to ask Belle some questions of her own, without the pressure of having to reveal her vulnerabilities. It was difficult to tell – hence, her plan of avoidance.

But it was impossible to avoid Belle's presence completely. The very fact that there was a presence in the castle to avoid was jarring enough to the Beast that she kept having to catch herself from roaming around the halls as she usually did. In addition, her injured wing proved to be a strong reminder; while it didn't seem to be worsening at all, the steady ache of the wound and the shooting pain which sometimes occurred when she forgot that she couldn't fly always brought her back to the wolves. Back to the moment before she had been injured, when she had acted on a mixture of human and bestial instinct and scooped Belle out of the snow. Whenever her wing ached, the Beast was drawn back to that precise millisecond when the snow had settled and she'd found herself curled protectively above Belle. Her nose and cheeks had turned bright red, her irises blown wide to the point where the Beast could see her own reflection in Belle's pupils. Her hands had gripped the Beast's arms tight. And then, when the Beast was insensible from the pain and cold, she had rescued her instead of leaving her to freeze to death.

It was the simple truth of that statement which kept running around in the Beast's head, if she was being honest with herself. She had imprisoned Belle's mother; taken her liberty in exchange; given her petty, pointless demands on her time; and frightened her half to death in the West Wing. And still she had rescued her.

"Why did she do it?" she found herself asking Mrs Potts three days after their return from the woods. "That's what I can't quite get my head around."

"Well, dearie, I'm sure I don't know," she replied breezily as she rolled down the hallway on the same tea trolley she was almost always on. "Maybe you should ask her yourself, if you're so desperate to find out."

"No, I – I can't do that." She ducked her head – the better to keep an eye on the carpet for any bumps or lumps.

Mrs Potts eventually took pity on the death of their conversation. "And why not?"

The Beast took a breath. "I can't help but feel on edge when I'm around her. As if she'd ask me anything and be disappointed if I replied with anything less than the truth." She twiddled her claws together as she tried to string together her thoughts before laying them out in speech. "Even when she asked my name, I could tell she was displeased that I couldn't – wouldn't respond. If I ask her why she rescued me, I don't know what she'd ask of me in return."

Mrs Potts hummed thoughtfully as they drew nearer to one of the many entrances to the servant's passage throughout the castle. The prince had liked his servants out of sight and out of mind, much the same way as he had wanted his wife. "I'm sorry, love, but I don't think there's much I can help you with in this situation." She trundled into the passageway as the Beast held the door open for her. "You won't like what advice I have to give," she said.

"Tell me anyway and I'll tell you whether I like it nor not," the Beast grumbled.

"The only way you'll get answers to your question is if you talk to Belle," she said.

Torn between an unsatisfactory answer and her desire to retain her dignity, the Beast settled for drawing up to her full height, fluffing up her feathers, and sharply walking off back the way she had come. Mrs Potts sighed as she went, shaking her head slightly as she made her way along the inner passage. "That girl," she muttered.

The Beast allowed her thoughts to drift as she stalked the halls, paying no attention to where her feet were taking her. They were caught in the same vicious cycle that they had been for the last three days; the desire to talk to Belle, the fear that Belle would ask her needling questions, the wish to avoid Belle for as long as feasibly possible, the desire to see her again. Only when the Beast noticed the wind stirring her feathers did she realise that she had walked outside. She was standing on one of the south-facing balconies that looked over the entirety of the grounds; if the Beast leaned far over the western edge she could almost see the walls of Yvonne's garden, still covered in a thick blanket of snow that hadn't yet melted. The sun had already begun to dip, and the turrets surrounding her cast the Beast in deep shadow while leaving the grounds themselves in sunlight. She tipped her head back, taking in a lungful of the crisp, cold air. As she opened her eyes again, she saw a small figure in a dark cloak leading a tall cart horse by the reins. Belle, she realised.

Covered by the shade, the Beast watched her without shame. She was wearing the same blue cloak she had arrived in, but her dress was a shade of green that brought to mind spring grass. She was walking slowly with her head bowed down to the ground, clearly lost in thought. The Beast was surprised at her downcast expression; she had expected Belle to be some sort of beacon of happiness or light, judging by how the staff talked about her. And yet there was nothing in that figure to suggest that the spirit in those brown eyes had been broken, either. In fact, a moment later her horse playfully butted her with his nose, and Belle spun around with a burst of laughter to continue the game. She feigned to the left, before darting around to his right at high speed, slipping a little in the snow as she ran. The horse let out a whinny as she playfully tapped him on the rear and nuzzled his nose into her stomach, before searching further under her arm. Belle laughed again, then said something the Beast couldn't hear as she fished something out from her pockets and fed the horse. She reached up to scratch behind his ears, still smiling.

"Mistress?"

The Beast spun around in shock. Cogsworth and Lumière had managed not only to join her, but to clamber up to the railing she was leaning on without her noticing them at all. In seven years, none of her staff had ever successfully snuck up on her, and it was difficult to say who was more surprised.

"Yes?" she replied as soon as she recovered her faculties. "What is it? Am I needed somewhere?"

"No, no," Cogsworth said carefully. "Lumière and I were just . . . reflecting on the last few days. We haven't seen you out and about as much."

"No doubt because you've been attending her," she replied. "And as you can see, I have not."

"Why is that, Mistress?" Lumière piped up. "It is not like you to keep out of the way when interesting developments are occurring."

She sighed. She suspected that if she confided her true reasons for not wanting to talk to Belle, they would give her the same advice as Mrs Potts. "She saved my life when she didn't need to," she said instead. "I can't understand why she would do something like that. And I don't want to intrude on her again, given how I behaved when she first arrived." The fact that everything the Beast had just said was also true surprised her. "And I can't help it, but I feel –"

"Yes?" Lumière said, his eyes lighting up.

". . . lonely." Another surprising moment of honesty. What was this girl doing to her, that she was being so unguarded with her staff after years of building walls? "Which is bizarre, I know; I have a castleful of servants, how could I possibly be lonely?" she scoffed.

Lumière sagged back down, but Cogsworth looked thoughtful. "You know, Mistress, I don't think that's bizarre at all. Even – before – you didn't have any other girls your age to talk to."

She scowled when he mentioned their lives pre-curse, but couldn't help seeing the truth in his statement.

"I think you would be surprised if you did speak to Belle, Mistress," Lumière chimed in. "She is a rather unusual woman."

"Why should I force her to speak to me, though?" the Beast asked. "I – under no circumstances do I want her to feel obligated to speak to me. To do anything for me because I ordered her to. I've seen the error of my ways in that respect."

Lumière and Cogsworth shared a look of mutual exasperation. "Mistress," Cogsworth said carefully, "you keep saying that you don't want to intrude on her, or that you don't want her to speak to you unless she wants to – but how can she get that chance if you avoid her at every turn?"

And there was the crux of the matter again. "What would you suggest, then," she said, her wings itching to carry her away from this uncomfortable conversation.

They shared another look, but this time one of co-conspirators. "Mistress," Lumière said with a patronising air which she would have strenuously objected to at any other time, "she likes to read."

While the Beast had been avoiding her, Belle had spent the days following her return to the castle exploring the rooms that Cogsworth had shown her and getting to know some more of the servants. She was always half on-edge that the Beast would appear from out of nowhere like she had in the West Wing, but she hadn't seen so much as a stray tail feather since she had left her in front of the fire. Although she might not be present, however, there was a lingering atmosphere of awkwardness and avoidance that tinged the castle walls. After three days of this, Belle eventually caved, and decided to explore the grounds.

In addition to being warm and welcoming, Madame de Garderobe had downright insisted that Belle let her old dress be washed, and wear the outfits in Madame's wardrobe instead while she was staying at the castle. She had needed some persuasion, but Belle's fears were greatly relieved once she saw that the dresses inside were sturdy, made of sensible wools and cottons – far from the wispy silks and satins she had feared being laced into. And true to her word, Belle saw that her own stockings, skirts, and bodice were hanging or folded in Madame's wardrobe two days after she had relinquished them. The borrowed dresses were a little long in skirt and sleeve length, but once a moving sewing kit had taken her measurements (Belle had attempted to restrain her looks of horror, until Madame and Mrs Potts assured her that while it moved, it wasn't an enchanted servant like them) Madame assured Belle that they would be altered to fit her within a week. Determined to at least make herself useful, Belle hemmed one dress herself – the grass-green dress she was wearing today.

Belle picked up Phillipe's reins again and resumed her walk, although she was a lot chirpier than before he had begun to play with her. "It's a surprisingly lovely day, isn't it, boy?" she smiled. "The air's good and bracing, and the snow's still sticking after all." She led him back towards the stables in a wide arc, noting the large walled-off area of the grounds with its wide arched entryway. Her curiosity awakened once again, Belle made her way back as soon as Phillipe was settled.

The arch itself was carved from stone, with curlicues and sculpted vine leaves climbing around in a spiral path. On either side of the entranceway were two stone pillars adorned with a fleur-de-lis, but the walls themselves were plain to look at. All the stone had been painted a deep ochre yellow in the setting sun. Belle wandered inside, pulling her cloak a little closer to her body to keep out the chill. As she took in the contents of the area a slow smile spread across her face, and without even noticing she rolled up the cuffs of her sleeves.

It was a walled garden. The plants themselves were all either dead or covered in snow, but that didn't dampen Belle's enthusiasm at all; in fact, it excited her. She began walking up and down the vast paths, noting the stout plane trees mixed in with young conifers, and the large banked beds. She wandered over a charming bridge, and peeked over to see a wide stream; the water moved so quickly that it was white, and Belle realised the garden must have been built on a small hill. She continued along the path, past an ivy-covered wall, and soon found herself back at the entryway; when she turned back around again she was half-blinded by the steadily lowering sun hitting her eyes.

"It's shaped like a labyrinth," she realised, with some delight. Belle walked as far around the outside of it as she could, just to see how far it extended; satisfied, she walked back inside and walked in the opposite direction to the one she had walked in the first time, just to be contrary. It wasn't until she was in front of the ivy-covered wall again that she realised something was strange about the inner proportions of the garden. Belle frowned and picked up her skirts as she ran back to the outside again, and walked along the outer wall as she counted her paces. She hurried to the entranceway again, and counted her paces as she walked along the first straight path. Her suspicions were confirmed when the ivy-covered wall appeared before her paces matched the number she had taken outside. A portion of the garden's been walled off, she realised. But why? She lifted her hands to try and move some of the trailing ivy out of the way, in an attempt to investigate.

"Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle Belle, are you still out here?"

Hearing Mrs Potts' distant voice, Belle leapt back from the ivy with a guilty start. After a moment of pained indecision, she pulled the hood of her cloak back over her head and made her way out the main entrance and towards the side door of the castle, where she could see Mrs Potts perched on her tea trolley. "Hello, Mrs Potts," she said, completely red in the face from the cold by the time she was within speaking distance.

"Goodness, child, where have you been? It's almost dark!" Mrs Potts turned and trundled back inside, and Belle eagerly followed. She shivered almost violently as the heat of the castle hit her, and she tossed the hood of her cloak back again.

"I suppose I lost track of time in the garden," she smiled. "I know it's winter time, but I always feel so much better after spending some time with the plants and trees."

"Is that so," Mrs Potts said pleasantly. "Why don't you hurry along to dinner, dearie – I've been reliably informed that tonight's meal is beef stew."

"Oh, that sounds lovely," Belle grinned as she hung her cloak up on the coatrack – she knew he had been a servant although she had yet to catch his name, and she half-bowed in appreciation as he whisked it away. "And Mrs Potts, if it's not too much bother – I should probably change the dressings on the – on your mistress's wing tonight. I need to check it's not getting infected."

"Of course, Belle," she said. "I'll tell the Mistress to wait in the sitting room once you've finished your dinner."

With that, she was off. Belle moved to the dining room, which was no less impressive than it had been her first night in the castle, and ate her stew as she listened to the feather dusters chat about fashions amongst themselves. She would have spoken up as she had done previously, but their talk of flounces, ribbons, and lace was quite alien to her; while Belle enjoyed to be well dressed as much as the next girl, her outfits tended towards plain and serviceable. In fact, she mused, she was fairly certain that she had outgrown the one or two pretty skirts and blouses she owned a few years ago by now.

Instead, her thoughts drifted towards her mysterious . . . well, it was unclear what their relationship was. The Beast wasn't her captor, precisely; Belle had returned to the castle of her own free will and because it was the right thing to do. And yet, despite everybody's continued assertions that she was their guest, Belle didn't precisely feel free to go either. For one thing, she had a duty of care towards the Beast – having saved her from death by exposure, she could hardly resign her to death by sepsis if she left her wound to rot. Although she tried to tell herself that was the only reason, however, she couldn't help but be intrigued by the mysteries surrounding the Beast herself; her beastly form, the living furniture, and now this new mystery of a hidden garden. And still deeper, deep enough that Belle couldn't have identified the reasoning for it if she tried, was the discomfort at being forced to call her 'Beast'. She wanted to know what her name was – for surely she had had one.

By the time she finished her stew, Belle's mind was positively spinning with all the directions her thoughts were taking her. She was almost eager to see the Beast again and try to get some answers to her questions. Full of trepidation, Belle took a moment while gathering up the bandages to steady her hands. "Don't be a fool," she muttered. "You'll do no favours to anybody if your hands keep shaking."

When she regained control over herself, Belle walked with a calm deliberateness she wished she felt and entered the sitting room. It look just as it had been when she left; a fire was banked; Cogsworth, Lumière, and Mrs Potts were stood in the same positions as before; and the Beast herself sat in the easy chair, the ruddy glow of the flames giving colour to her white and gold feathers. She turned her head to look at Belle as she entered, and Belle was struck by her eyes as they caught the fire.

"Well, shall we?" Belle asked as she walked behind the chair to reach the hot water beside Mrs Potts. The Beast adjusted herself so that her wing was more easily accessible. She didn't flinch at all as Belle eased the bandages off, or when Belle carefully poked and prodded around her wound. "Well," she said, "it doesn't look inflamed to me. I'd keep an eye on it, though. I'll keep changing the dressings every few days until it's healed a little better."

"Thank you," she said. If Belle's hands hadn't been holding her wing in place as she replaced the dressing, she might have started in surprise. It was the first thing she had said that evening.

Belle finished her work in silence, but it was of a slightly different quality to that of three days ago. When she was done, she remained standing beside the Beast, unsure of what exactly she was to do next. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lumière give his mistress a meaningful look. Before she could so much as frown in confusion, the Beast spoke up again.

"Cogsworth told me that you never finished your tour of the castle," she said. Her voice was rather thin, as if she was afraid it would break beneath her words.

"No," Belle said, unhelpfully. She inwardly cursed herself for so effectively shutting down the conversation, and charged on in an attempt to resuscitate it. "I – he was going to show me the library next, I think, but I – well." She blushed.

The Beast shuffled her wings as best she could while sitting down. "I could show you, if you like?" she said. "We have quite an extensive collection of books – prose, poetry, plays, as well as non-fiction and essays."

Belle felt her interest rise. "That sounds lovely," she grinned. "I love to read."

"Anything in particular?" the Beast asked as she rose from the chair. Belle followed her out to the hallway, and they began climbing the stairs together.

"Whatever I could get my hands on, really," she said. "My uncle owns a bookstore, so I could get access to books easier than others could. I've read plays, and histories, and some essays, and the Botanical Magazine is my favourite periodical. Although I must admit that novels hold my interest perhaps more than they should."

The Beast let out a high-pitched, fluttering noise; Belle glanced over in alarm to see that her clawed hand had risen up to her beak, and as she lowered it she tilted her head to the side slightly. Did she . . . laugh? Belle wondered.

"I must confess I feel the same way," the Beast said, seemingly ignorant of Belle's stares. "Now, I enjoy our native authors very well, but some of the English works can hook onto my imagination just as well as they do."

"You read English?" Belle asked before she could stop herself. To her surprise (and relief) the Beast didn't glare at her, but instead made that same fluttering noise.

"I had an expensive education," she said.

Definitely laughter, then, Belle thought. With the tension between them broken a little, Belle found that the walk to the library was much less uncomfortable than she had expected it to be. Soon enough they were in front of a set of doors Belle hadn't explored yet. The Beast fiddled with the handles, before triumphantly letting them swing open. Belle took two steps into the room and gasped.

When Cogsworth, Lumière, and now the Beast had mentioned an extensive collection, Belle had pictured a room maybe twice the size of her uncle's shop. In reality, the library was one large, sprawling room which could have easily fitted the entire first floor of Belle and Marie's house three times. The large floor-to-ceiling windows were hung with heavy green drapes, and the walls were covered, from top to bottom and end to end, with shelves upon shelves of books. Belle was distantly aware that her hands had flown to her mouth, but she couldn't focus on anything besides the contents of the library. Each book was beautifully bound, and as Belle spun around slowly she saw that there were also plenty of couches, tables, and fireplaces to make the room extremely comfortable.

"Belle?" the Beast asked quietly. "Are you alright?"

"It – it's wonderful," she whispered. "I've never seen so many books in my entire life."

"Feel free to take any of them back to your room," the Beast said. "It's about time someone besides me got some use out of them."

"Oh –" Belle started, but the Beast lifted her arms in a 'shushing' gesture before Belle could even begin.

"Please," she said. "Consider them yours."

Belle's hands rose back up to her mouth. "I can't," she said, although why precisely she couldn't, she wasn't quite sure.

"Please," the Beast said again. "I insist." Her eyes were pleading with Belle.

"Thank you," Belle conceded. "I . . . I don't even know where to start."

"Fiction is that way." The Beast gestured with her left wing, and despite her beak Belle could have sworn that she was smiling.

"I'm a little overwhelmed," she chuckled. "Could you direct me to Collins? I left a book of his behind, and I was almost halfway through it."

"The Moonstone?" she guessed.

"Never read it," Belle said. "I was reading the Woman In White."

"Oh, The Moonstone 's wonderful!" the Beast said. "It's a mystery story – a very valuable diamond is stolen on the heroine's eighteenth birthday, and there's instant suspicion placed on a variety of suspects –"

"Oh, don't tell me, I'd love to read it once I'm finished," Belle laughed. "Have you ever read The Woman in White?"

"No, actually," the Beast said. "Although we do have it in the library."

"It's a fascinating story . . ." Belle started as they walked over to the shelves.

From the library door, Cogsworth, Lumière and Plumette stood watching with hope in their hearts for the first time in years.

"I don't think I've seen her this excited about something since her mother died," Cogsworth murmured.

"Very promising indeed, oui," Lumière agreed in a low tone.

"Perhaps this curse stands a chance of being broken after all, mes amours," Plumette whispered, a wing over each of their shoulders.